Into the Dreaming (21 page)

Nearly an hour later, cupping a mitten over her frozen nose, and seriously doubting that Maeve knew north from a hole in her head, Elisabeth was about to turn back when she topped a steep hill and spied the cottage, nestled snugly in the immense snowy valley below. She paused, catching her breath
and admiring the picture it made, surrounded by sparkling, snow-covered hills.

Constructed of stone, it faced east and was simplicity itself, cozy and delightfully inviting. Twelve tall windows, six on each floor, reflected the brilliant sun. Snow blanketed the sloping roof, dropping from the edges, landing on bush-shaped mounds below. Glittering icicles hung from the eaves.
And oh, joy of joys
, she thought, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, no less than four chimneys were puffing merrily away. Perhaps she could thaw her fingers and toes by a fire. He might even offer her something hot to drink.

Harvard suddenly seemed light-years away, with its bustle and competitiveness and brittle gloss, and she was puzzled by the sense of relief she suddenly felt. Maybe she was just long overdue for a vacation, she decided. Gazing down at the vast valley, unmarred by any sign of modern technology, she could imagine what the Scotland of yore had been like, with miles and miles of unspoiled beauty. She found the stillness and old-fashioned simplicity oddly captivating. As if she could breathe easier in these clean, untamed mountains.

Tugging her hat more snugly over her ears, she hastened down the hill toward the cottage. She was curious about Dageus MacKeltar, had been since the moment she’d laid eyes on his painting. Gwen’s reluctance to discuss him on the phone had only heightened her curiosity.

It had made her a bit anxious as well. She reminded herself that since he was well enough to live alone, he probably had nothing more than a case of depression that would nicely fit the classic theories.

She imagined his body language would be defensive and
closed. He might fold his arms and cross and uncross his legs, or make only brief eye contact before his gaze skittered away. He would be eager to talk, yet defiant. And he would look nothing like that idiotic painting. A kilt, indeed!
Short, overweight, and balding
, she reminded herself.

Carefully navigating the drifts blanketing the front lawn, she hurried to the door of the cottage, her breath frosting the air. She was leaning forward, her hand fisted to knock, when the door was pulled abruptly inward. Off balance, she stumbled. Flailing for the doorjamb, she barely managed to keep herself from falling flat on her face.

The moment during which she raised her gaze from the threshold to his bare chest seemed to take years. There was just too much golden, glistening skin poured over muscle, and too little clothing for a girl’s comfort. By the time her gaze hit his chin, her breathing was shallow and irregular.

Oh, please God, no
, she thought, her hopes crashing to her toes as she craned her neck to stare up at him.

Oh, thank you, God, yes
, her id breathed reverently, all but genuflecting.

As if he’d simply stepped right out of the painting, sans kilt, there he stood.

Not short, in fact, he towered over her. Not fat, there wasn’t a spare ounce on him. Just ripples and velvety skin and … power. And definitely not balding, she thought, staring at thick, silky black hair pulled back at his nape.

He exuded every bit as much presence and raw sensuality as he had on canvas. The man was positively magnetic. She fancied her hair might be crackling with static electricity from the energy rolling off him. The painting hadn’t
begun
to
do him justice. His face was exquisitely masculine, exquisitely sensual, his cheekbones and jaw chiseled in stark relief by a dusting of a shadow beard. His lips were firm and full, and she got all hung up there for a moment. Only with immense effort did she force herself to meet his eyes.

They were golden. Shimmery, exotic amber, tempered with darker flecks.

She stared. The beauty of the man had completely numbed her brain. Either that or she’d been hiking way too long.

He stared right back.

“You’re no’ a sheep,” he said finally, in a husky Scots burr.

“No,” she agreed breathlessly, stupidly, unable to dredge up a single intelligent thing to say. Like her name. Or hello. Or even, Gee, isn’t there a lot of snow?

“ ’Tis but that I’ve seen naught but sheep for some time now,” he clarified, staring.

“You’re not, er … dressed,” she stammered, struggling valiantly to keep her gaze from dropping to his toes and back up again.

“I’m no’ naked.” A long pause. Then huskily, “But I could remedy that, lass.”

Elisabeth gaped at him, trying to decide if he meant to remedy it by dressing or undressing, and lost a few moments imagining him completely nude. It took an icicle, melting in the morning sun, falling from the eave above her head, and shattering into brittle shards on the ground between them, to jar her back to reality.

They both jerked like startled sleepwalkers and thrust out their hands.

“I’m Elisabeth.”

“Dageus,” he said, catching her hand quickly, and raising it to his lips.

“Zanders.” She snatched her hand away before those dangerous lips could so much as brush her skin.

“MacKeltar.” He arched a brow and something flared in his eyes. A hint of laughter? A brush of cockiness? A subtle challenge sensed? She hoped not. He looked like the kind of man who tackled challenges with brutal enthusiasm.

“Come in, lass,” he purred, opening the door wide, never taking his eyes off her. “I’ve not had a wom—er, visitor in the longest time.”

Elisabeth took a deep breath that was supposed to be calming, but it didn’t help. Despite her best intentions, her gaze dropped from his face to his muscled, sweat-glistening chest. Ever the student of body language, an invaluable tool in her profession, and cursing herself for it at the moment, she observed that his nipples were hard.
The cold
, she translated, struggling for detachment.
It’s the combination of sweat and cold
.

And yours are hard why?
her id queried smugly.

She flushed, grateful for her bulky parka. Before her gaze could drop any lower, and start skimming those black gym shorts to check for other body language she oh-so-definitely had no business checking for, she closed her eyes.
This just won’t do at all, Zanders. Get a grip
.

“Och, lass, I’ve embarrassed you,” he apologized, without one ounce of apology in his voice. “Come in. I’ll be naught more than a moment getting dressed,” he said in a thick burr. It was a strange accent, unlike Maeve’s or Nigel’s. Unlike any she’d heard in Scotland so far.

“Perhaps I should come back l-later,” she stammered, opening her eyes. Big mistake. Her gaze began a slow slide straight back down his body again as, much to her consternation, he watched her, and the corner of his sensual mouth lifted in a faint smile. “It was foolish of me t-to …”
come unannounced
was what she was trying to get out, but she trailed off when he closed a hand around her upper arm, yanked her inside, and closed the door behind her.

He braced his palms against the door, on either side of her head, walling her in with six-feet-plus of glistening, gorgeous male flesh.

For a long, awful moment, Elisabeth thought the man was going to kiss her. Just duck his head and cover her lips with his and—oh, for a long, awful moment she could nearly taste it. Taste things that only existed between the covers of a fantasy novel. Fortunately, despite her traitorous inner thoughts, she must have looked horrified, because when he searched her face intently, something flared in his eyes, and he dropped his hands and eased back a step.

As if he’d decided not to terrify her too much. Yet.

“My home is yours, lass,” he said softly in his thick burr. “Bide a wee with me and shake your chill. Would you be liking tea? Nay,” he amended swiftly, “I’m thinking you’re American. It’ll be coffee, will it no’?”

“Coffee would be lovely,” she managed, averting her gaze and trying to regain a measure of calm by cataloging her surroundings.

To her right was a colorful, sunny room filled with lush plants, free weights, benches, and pads, and an elliptical crosstrainer. Classical music was playing softly, from multiple speakers. To her left was a living room with a bright blaze
crackling in the fireplace. She eyed the plush sofa, the books scattered about, the television, the marble-topped tables, and the empty wineglasses, anything but him.
Come on, Zanders, get it together
, she chided herself.
This man is supposed to be our patient
.

Then we’re in trouble with a capital T
, she thought grimly.

How dare he be so heart-stoppingly male? Was it too much to ask that she might have gotten a normal, midlife-crisis-having, bespectacled, balding patient on her first premature lunge from the gates? She glared at him but he’d somehow gotten behind her and was herding her down a hallway into the kitchen, a cozy room hung with drying herbs and gleaming copper-bottomed pans and yet another fire.

“Then sit, lass,” he said, right behind her ear. She realized, much to her chagrin, that she’d just been very effectively manipulated. He’d neither invited her into the kitchen, nor taken her along by the elbow. In fact, he’d not touched her at all. He’d merely used the presence of his warm, nearly naked body in her personal space, to direct her where he wanted her to go. Like a dog herding sheep. And like a witless sheep, she’d trundled obediently along.

Oh, definitely trouble with a capital T
.

His breath was warm near her ear, his voice husky. “Toast your toes by the fire, lass. I’ll be after a shirt and trews, then see to brewing some coffee.”

When he stepped away from her and left the room, she could have sworn her body temperature dropped several degrees. She’d stopped feeling chilled from her snowy trek the moment he’d opened the door. But when he’d stood close behind her, she felt flushed, nearly feverish.

She stared out the window, trying to collect herself. She folded her hands in her lap and took slow deep breaths.

Elisabeth had never reacted to a man the way she reacted to Dageus MacKeltar. Oh, she’d dated a few men, even fooled around a bit. Once, she’d even gone pretty far. But not all the way. Perhaps, she acknowledged ruefully, she’d never gone all the way only because she’d never felt anything like this before. A desperate, immediate physical attraction that—because it had caught her so off guard—had muddled her senses completely. For a moment she’d been only a woman, and he only a man.

And that just wouldn’t do.

Now that she knew what to expect, she assured herself, she’d be able to control it. Being attracted to one’s patient violated the cardinal rule of therapy.
Face it, Zanders, it’s either the man, or lots of money
. She knew which one had greater staying power, despite him looking like the poster boy for stamina.

Money was real. Career was real. People, well, people had a bad habit of disappearing just when one needed them the most.

Dageus watched her over his shoulder as he toweled the sweat from his body and stepped into a pair of loose-fitting black trews. If she made one move toward the door, he was fair certain he would tackle her. But she didn’t. She sat stiffly at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly in her lap, staring fixedly out the west window at the frozen pond.

He made her nervous, he thought. Good.

She made him hard as a rock. He could scarce believe she
was there. A woman. Lush and lovely. Sitting at his table. About to have coffee with him.

He’d been doing sit-ups in the sunroom when he’d glanced outside and seen the lass headed straight for his door. He’d not clapped eyes upon a woman other than Gwen in four months. He’d stopped mid crunch and stared, stunned, as she’d clambered over the deep drifts that covered the front lawn. Coming right toward him—an innocent sheep ambling straight for the wolf. And as a wolf might lick his chops, he’d wet his lips, his body tensing, his blood quickening.

She was a bonny lass, wee like Gwen, and, in his estimation, even lovelier. But he wanted to do something about all that curly hair she’d trapped so snugly beneath her blue woolen cap. Set it free. Bury his hands in it. Tendrils of silver and honey had escaped her cap and curled about her cold-flushed cheeks. Her stormy blue eyes were huge beneath delicately arched brows. Her skin was smooth, translucent as pearl. Her upper lip was slightly fuller than her lower and uptilted. Pure, sinful temptation that mouth was, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he imagined what he’d like to do with it. Although her bulky parka camouflaged the curves of her body, her shapely legs clad in denim trews hinted at a lush figure. He ached to peel off the layers of her clothing, drag her to his bed, and keep her there until neither of them could move. He envisioned her luscious lips parted on a whimper of pleasure as he buried himself deeply inside her.

What vagary of fate had brought her to his door? he wondered, tugging a T-shirt over his head. He took several deep breaths, willing his man parts to stop tenting the fabric of his trews. When that didn’t work, he rearranged himself, and untucked his shirt.